Tenant And Landlord example essay topic

"A Writer's Night" By, Jennifer C. Bennett The best moments in a day aren't in a day. They are at a night. Where the sun has set on the hills and plains of a land. Soon, resident ed eyes will set as well.

Dreams and nightmares await. They drift off into a weightless trance, while spirits in the background sway like trees in the first warning signs of a storm. Slumber is the name of the mute, rugged mountain man whose job is to simply carry your mind across these deep waters of subconsciousness. He is the only man for the job, for his strength can compare with the weight of our secret thoughts and desires. It is a time when those being preyed on are least successful, and those who come out to hunt -- usually get what they are looking for.

Tonight, I come out for these reasons. Parched eyes skim across familiar pages, wandering in an atmosphere of complete silence. With its momentary call, the grandfather clock provokes me to speak aloud, though he should know by now, that I will not answer. "What is it you " re up for?" a voice interrupts my rattling fingers and quick-paced thoughts.

Suddenly, the tracks float over an airy cliff as my train of thought winds down to a halt. Of all that I was lost in, is now lost. My jaw clenches as I comprehend the setting of reality. "God damm t -- I was trying to write!" Blood rushes in and out so quickly, I grasp the arm-rests in my chair and swing forward to examine the time. "Well, it is three-thirty in the morning".

Her tone melts along with the reminder of the grandfather clock. It is almost like they are ironically telling me at the same time. But I refuse to accept that I should surrender to sleep when the light retires. "I realize that", I scoff, as I perform a child-like whirl in my chair. It seems to amuse me more than it does her, so I stop. "When are you going to bed?" She whines.

"I'm ti ed... ."So? !" My reply comes out wildly-defensive. "Who's stopping you? I never said you couldn't go to sleep!" Suddenly, my blood races again... with an indignant whirl infront of the computer screen, I convince myself it is not anger. My fingers meet the keys and the sound of clicks and tatters vacate a silence.

With her miserable croak, she breaks it. "That -- that -- sound! !" She slumps on the couch and expectantly watches me -- as if I'm supposed to adapt my needs to hers. "Erin! Why do you have to always ruin it for me?! !" We both sense an unwanted drama in my tone.

I can't help it, I think as I stare tiredly into her slumber-sunken eyes. It's my time. At night is the only time I can concentrate. Can't she see that? "You " re such a b tch when you " re writing... ". she yawns as if reading my thoughts. "Yeah -- well I hope you know why", I blurt out before acknowledging the truth in her statement.

It's true. I become hostile, impatient, and selfish when I write. It is such a process that cannot be interfered with, for if it is -- the moment is lost. A writer is like the landlord awaiting an overdue payment. It is crucial to the tenant who occupies their space. Once the landlord recieves what his obvious, daily visits look for in disguise, he becomes satisfied and relaxed.

Before another daily 'check-up' can be faked, the payment is made. Both tenant and landlord breathe a sigh of relief as the backs are turned. I sit in this chair looking for one thing. It is in the tenant's house I pace in, for I am asking myself whether I want to be the tenant or the landlord. I know what I want, but I have to know how to get it. Until I find a way to put the words together, I will sit here; searching my mind of possible answers -- all of which have been proven wrong.

Past and previous writers hold the answer key. I grab for it, falling to my knees with to avail. Like a student, I am squirming in a front-row classroom desk during a test. No one can win for me, I depend only on what is inside. Granted, a peer could offer a hint, from which I may succeed an inch closer to discovery. Other than that, I am merely emptying the jargon from my brain into a puzzle of words in which could miraculously make sense to someone else.

Someday. "I asked you a question", she repeated sourly. "Yeah? ... What?" My head raises from my hands. I blink several times.

"When are you going to bed?" I stare at the screen, type a quick note, and take this scene as a hint. Tomorrow I will find you, I say to the heap of words in desparate need of translation. "Ahem", Erin reminds me. "Jen?"Now", I said.

"I'll go to bed, now... but tomorrow, the landlord is getting his payment."What?" She asks in a ridiculed sense. I can see her raised eyebrows amidst the darkness. .".. Nothing". The grandfather clock moans tiredly at four o' clock. Still, I do not answer. (none -- personal experience).